I flew to London a few weeks later. I was covering Wimbledon, the world's premier1 tennis competition and one of the few events I go to where the crowd never boos and no one is drunk in the parking lot. England was warm and cloudy, and each morning I walked the treelined streets near the tennis courts, passing teenagers cued up for leftover2 tickets and vendors3 selling strawberries and cream. Outside the gate was a newsstand that sold a halfdozen colorful British tabloids4, featuring photos of topless women, paparazzi pictures of the royal family, horoscopes, sports, lottery5 contests, and a wee bit of actual news. Their top headline of the day was written on a small chalkboard that leaned against the latest stack of papers, and usually read something like DIANA IN ROW WITH CHARLES! or GAZZA TO TEAM: GIVE ME MILLIONS!
People scooped6 up these tabloids, devoured7 their gossip, and on previous trips to England, I had always done the same. But now, for some reason, I found myself thinking about Morrie whenever I read anything silly or mindless. I kept picturing him there, in the house with the Japanese maple8 and the hardwood floors, counting his breath, squeezing out every moment with his loved ones, while I spent so many hours on things that meant absolutely nothing to me personally: movie stars, supermodels, the latest noise out of Princess Di or Madonna or John F. Kennedy, Jr. In a strange way, I envied the quality of Morrie's time even as I lamented9 its diminishing supply. Why did we, bother with all the distractions10 we did? Back home, the O. J. Simpson trial was in full swing, and there were people who surrendered their entire lunch hours watching it, then taped the rest so they could watch more at night. They didn't know O. J. Simpson. They didn't know anyone involved in the case. Yet they gave up days and weeks of their lives, addicted11 to someone else's drama.
I remembered what Morrie said during our visit: "The culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it."
Morrie, true to these words, had developed his own culture-long before he got sick. Discussion groups, walks with friends, dancing to his music in the Harvard Square church. He started a project called Greenhouse, where poor people could receive mental health services. He read books to find new ideas for his classes, visited with colleagues, kept up with old students, wrote letters to distant friends. He took more time eating and looking at nature and wasted no time in front of TV sitcoms12 or "Movies of the Week." He had created a cocoon13 of human activities-conversation, interaction, affection-and it filled his life like an overflowing14 soup bowl.
I had also developed my own culture. Work. I did four or five media jobs in England, juggling15 them like a clown. I spent eight hours a day on a computer, feeding my stories back to the States. Then I did TV pieces, traveling with a crew throughout parts of London. I also phoned in radio reports every morning and afternoon. This was not an abnormal load. Over the years, I had taken labor16 as my companion and had moved everything else to the side.
In Wimbledon; I ate meals at my little wooden work cubicle17 and thought nothing of it. On one particularly crazy day, a crush of reporters had tried to chase down Andre Agassi and his famous girlfriend, Brooke Shields, and I had gotten knocked over by a British photographer who barely muttered "Sorry" before sweeping18 past, his huge metal lenses strapped19 around his neck. I thought of something else Morrie had told me: "So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they're busy doing things they think are important. This is because they're chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning."
I knew he was right.
Not that I did anything about it.
At the end of the tournament-and the countless20 cups of coffee I drank to get through it-I closed my computer, cleaned out my cubicle, and went back to the apartment to pack. It was late. The TV was nothing but fuzz.
I flew to Detroit, arrived late in the afternoon, dragged myself home and went to sleep. I awoke to a jolting21 piece of news: the unions at my newspaper had gone on strike. The place was shut down. There were picketers at the front entrance and marchers chanting up and down the street. As a member of the union, I had no choice: I was suddenly, and for the first time in my life, out of a job, out of a paycheck, and pitted against my employers. Union leaders called my home and warned me against any contact with my former editors, many of whom were my friends, telling me to hang up if they tried to call and plead their case.
"We're going to fight until we win!" the union leaders swore, sounding like soldiers.
I felt confused and depressed22. Although the TV and radio work were nice supplements, the newspaper had been my lifeline, my oxygen; when I saw my stories in print in each morning, I knew that, in at least one way, I was alive.
Now it was gone. And as the strike continued-the first day, the second day, the third day-there were worried phone calls and rumors23 that this could go on for months. Everything I had known was upside down. There were sporting events each night that I would have gone to cover. Instead, I stayed home, watched them on TV. I had grown used to thinking readers somehow needed my column. I was stunned24 at how easily things went on without me.
After a week of this, I picked up the phone and dialed Morrie's number. Connie brought him to the phone. "You're coming to visit me," he said, less a question than a statement.
Well. Could I?
"How about Tuesday?"
Tuesday would be good, I said. Tuesday would be fine.
In my sophomore25 year, I take two more of his courses. We go beyond the classroom, meeting now and then just to talk. I have never done this before with an adult who was not a relative, yet I feel comfortable doing it with Morrie, and he seems comfortable making the time.
"Where shall we visit today?" he asks cheerily when I enter his office.
In the spring, we sit under a tree outside the sociology building, and in the winter, we sit by his desk, me in my gray sweatshirts and Adidas sneakers, Morrie in Rockport shoes and corduroy pants. Each time we talk, lie listens to me ramble26, then he tries to pass on some sort of life lesson. He warns me that money is not the most important thing, contrary to the popular view on campus. He tells me I need to be "fully27 human." He speaks of the alienation28 of youth and the need for "connectedness" with the society around me. Some of these things I understand, some I do not. It makes no difference. The discussions give me an excuse to talk to him, fatherly conversations I cannot have with my own father, who would like me to be a lawyer.
Morrie hates lawyers.
"What do you want to do when you get out of college?" he asks.
I want to be a musician, I say. Piano player. "Wonderful," he says. "But that's a hard life." Yeah.
"A lot of sharks." That's what I hear.
"Still," he says, "if you really want it, then you'll make your dream happen. "
I want to hug him, to thank him for saying that, but I am not that open. I only nod instead.
"I'll bet you play piano with a lot of pep," he says. I laugh. Pep?
He laughs back. "Pep. What's the matter? They don't say that anymore?"
几个星期后我飞往伦敦。我是去报道温布尔顿网球公开赛的，那是世界顶级的网球比赛，也是少数几个没有观众喝倒彩，没人在停车场上喝得酪叮大醉的体育场合之一。英国很暖和，多云的天气，每天早上我在网球场附近的林荫道散步，不时碰见排着长队等退票的孩子以及叫卖草毒和冰淇淋的摊贩。网球场的大门外有一个报刊亭，卖五六种套色的英国通俗小报。裸体女郎的特写照片、“拍拍垃圾”的皇家新闻照片。星象算命书。体育杂志。抽奖比赛以及少量的时事新闻。他们把当天的热门报道写在一块倚靠着报纸堆的黑板上，它们通常是：黛安娜与查尔斯不和或加扎向球队要几百万！
人们很欢迎这些通俗小报，津津有味地读着那些小道新闻。前几次来英国时我也这么做，可这次，不知什么原因，每当我读到那些元聊的东西，我就会想起莫里。我脑子里老是出现他在那幢长着日本槭树且铺着硬木地板的房子里数着他的呼吸次数。挤出每一分钟时间去陪伴他所爱之人的情形。而我却把大量的时间花在那些对我毫无意义的事情上：什么电影明星啦，超级模特啦，有关迪公主，玛多娜或小肯尼迪的传闻啦。说来也怪，虽然我悲叹莫里来日无多的生命，但我又忌妒它的充实。我们为何要把大量的时间花在无谓的琐事上：什么电影明星啦，超级模特啦，有关迪公主，玛多娜或小肯尼迪的传闻啦。说来也怪，虽然我悲叹莫里来日无多的生命，但我又忌妒它的充实。我们为何要把大量的时间花在无谓的琐事上？O•J•辛普森的案子在美国闹得沸沸扬扬，人们为了收看这一报道而情愿放弃整个午饭的时间，还要再预录下来不及看完的部分到晚上补看。他们并不认识辛普森，他们也不认识和这件案子有关的其他人。然而他们却甘愿为此浪费掉时间，整日、整个星期地沉溺在他人的闹剧里。
我记起了上次见面时莫里说过的话：“我们的文化并不让我们感到心安理得。你需要十分的坚强才能说，如果这种文化没有用，就别去接受它。”
莫里，就像他说的那样，建立了他自己的文化——早在他患病之前就这么做了。小组讨论，和朋友散步，去华盛顿广场的教堂跳舞自娱。他还制定了一个名叫绿屋的计划，为贫困的人提供心理治疗。他博览群书为他的课寻找新的思想内容，他走访同事们，与毕业的学生保持联系，给远方的朋友写信。他情愿花时间去享享口福和赏玩自然，而从不浪费在电视喜剧或周末电影上。他建立了一种人类活动的模式——相互交流，相互影响，相互爱护——这一模式充实着他的生活。
我也建立了我自己的文化：工作。我在英国干四到五份新闻媒体的工作，像小丑一样地跳来跳去。我一天在电脑上要花八个小时，把报道传送回美国；此外我还要制作电视节目，跟着摄制组走遍伦敦的每一个地方。我还要在每天的上午和下午主持听众来电直播节月。这份负担确实够重的。几年来，我一直将工作视为我的伴侣，把其它一切都抛在了脑后。
在温布尔顿，我就在小小方方的工作台上用餐，权当完成任务。有一天，一群发了疯似的记者拼命追踪阿加西和他那位有名的女友波姬•小丝，我被一个英国摄影师撞倒了，他只咕哝了一声“对不起”便跑得没了人影，他的脖子上辇着巨大的金属镜头。我不由地想起了莫里曾对我说过的另一番话：“许多人过着没有意义的生活。即使当他们在忙于一些自以为重要的事情时，他们也显得昏昏慵慵的。这是因为他们在追求一种错误的东西。你要使生活有意义，你就得献身于爱，献身于你周围的群体，去创造一种能给你目标和意义的价值观。”
我想他是对的。
尽管我在反其道而行之。
公开赛结束了——我是靠无数咖啡才摔过来的——我关掉电脑，清理完工作台，回到了住处打点行装。已经是深夜了，电视里早已没有了画面。
我飞回底特律，傍晚时才到达。我拖着疲惫的身子回到家，一头倒在了床上。醒来后看到的是一则爆炸性的新闻：我那家报纸的工会举行了罢工。报社关闭了。大门口站着纠察队员，请愿者在街上游行示威。作为工会的会员，我没有选择。我突然之间、也是我生活中第一次失去了工作，失去了支票，和老板处于对立面。工会的头给我打来电话，警告我别同任何我以前的老总们接触，如果他们打电话来解释，就挂断电话。他们中有许多人是我的朋友。
"我们要战斗到胜利！”工会的头像士兵一样发誓说。
我感到既困惑又沮丧。虽然我在电视台和电台的打工是一份不错的副业，但报纸始终是我的生命线，是我生命中的氧气。当我每天早上看见我写的报道见诸报端时，我便知道，至少从某个意义上说我还活着。
现在它消失了。随着罢工的继续——一天，两天，三天——不断有令人焦虑的电话和谣言传来，说这次罢工有可能持续几个月。我所熟悉的生活方式被打乱了。原来每天晚上都有体育比赛需要我去采访，现在我只能呆在家里，坐在电视机前看。我已经理所当然地认为读者是非常需要我的专栏文章的，可我吃惊地发现缺了我一切照样进行得十分顺利。
这样过了一个星期，我拿起电话拨了莫里的号码，康尼让他接了电话。
"你来看我，”他的语调不像是询问而像是命令。
我能来吗？
"星期二怎么样？”
星期二很合适，我说。就星期二。
在大学的第二年，我选了他的另外两门课，我们跨出了教室，经常见面交谈。我以前从来没有和一个亲属以外的成年人这么相处过，但我觉得和莫里极容易相处，他也显得很快活。
"今天我们该去哪儿？”我一走进他的办公室，他兴奋地问。
春天，我们就坐在社会学系大楼外的一棵大树下；冬天，我们坐在他的办公桌前。我穿无领的灰色长袖衫和阿迪达斯运动鞋，莫里则穿洛克波特鞋和灯芯绒裤子。我们每次交谈时，他先听我漫无边际的聊天，然后将话题移到人生经验上，他提醒我说，金钱不是最重要的，这和校园里盛行的观点截然相反。他对我说应该做一个“完整的人”。他谈到了青春的异化问题，谈到了同周围的社会建立某种联系的必要性。有些事情我能理解，有些则不能，但这无关紧要。讨论问题向我提供了一个同他交谈的机会，我和我父亲从未有过这样的交谈，我父亲希望我将来当律师。
莫里讨厌律师。
"你毕业后想做什么？”他问。
我想成为音乐家，我说。弹钢琴。
"太好了，”他说，“但这是条很艰难的道路。”
是的。
"有许多行家高手。”
我早已听说了。
"但是，”他说，“如果你真的这么想，那就应该让你的梦想成真。”我真想拥抱他，感谢他这么说，可我不是很外向，我只是，点了点头。
"我相信你弹钢琴时一定很有活力，”他说。
我笑了。活力？
他也笑了。“活力。怎么啦，这个说法已经过时了？”
收听单词发音 |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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leftover
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| n.剩货，残留物，剩饭；adj.残余的 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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tabloids
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| n.小报，通俗小报（版面通常比大报小一半，文章短，图片多，经常报道名人佚事）( tabloid的名词复数 )；药片 | |
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lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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sitcoms
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| n.情景喜剧( sitcom的名词复数 ) | |
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cocoon
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| n.茧 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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